


freedom.

by VoltageInside



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: Arora-chichou | Alola, Canon - Video Game, Escapism, Friends to Lovers, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Learning to trust, M/M, Past Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Team Skull (Pokemon), more tags as the story develops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoltageInside/pseuds/VoltageInside
Summary: escape doesn't necessarily mean freedom.fleeing an abusive home in johto, healing comes from a very unexpected source when a man falls in with alola's local gang.(rewrite from 2016 fic. nsfw in later chapters.)
Relationships: Guzma (Pokemon)/Original Character(s), Guzma (Pokemon)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

Coming to Alola had been his dream for as long as he could remember. The culture, the people, the warmth, the promise of escape, it had all drawn him in from the very first time he’d seen it on the television in his parents' living room. 

The ship’s deck under his feet is slick with spray from the waves, sunlight glinting off the drying salt and stray puddles. They have already docked, and are only waiting for the last few safety protocols to be run through before they can disembark. He examines the crowd, bustling with activity. While he’d intentionally avoided the main tourist traps, it seems that nowhere is entirely free of the energetic crowds. Exhaling slowly through pursed lips, he stands anxiously near the exit ramp; it feels as though the crew are dragging things out on purpose. His fingers twitch. 

Finally, the bridge extends. He steps off the ferry, trying not to break into a sprint on the downward slope; the last thing he wants to do is call attention to himself. The sea had been smooth, but he still has to swallow down the acidic bile rising in his throat as his wobbly legs try to adjust to solid ground again. He reaches for the Pokéballs on his hip. One is cold, but the other trembles restlessly. He presses the button to activate it, and the light that spills from it takes the familiar form of his Jolteon. It shakes its fur out, squinting in the bright sun before looking up at its partner. 

Jolteon takes a step forward to butt its head against his shin, and he leans against the railing of the dock. He sighs heavily, feeling the last of the city dust leave his lungs to be replaced by fresh air and salt. He’s made it this far, but he’s not out of the woods yet. It takes him a moment to realise that he’s visibly scowling; he scrubs his hands over his eyes and mouth until he feels grounded enough to follow the crowd towards the town.

Jolteon pads ahead of him, sniffing about here and there and retreating to his side whenever someone got too close. It was understandable; his Pokémon aren’t exactly people friendly, and he had expected his Pokémon to be a little nervous around so many new things at once. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he clicks his tongue a few times — a reminder that he was there just as much as it was an indicator to keep moving. First things first, he’ll need to get the hell out of these hot clothes. Alola’s heat is a complete turnaround from Johto’s bitter winter. He can already feel sweat sticking his hoodie to his back, the longer hair on his neck starting to dampen and curl. 

In the nearest town, there’s a small shop with a t-shirt printed on its sign. He presses the door open, setting off the jingle of a little bell above the lintel. The door nearly shuts on Jolteon when it stops to stand under the cool blast of air conditioning, a weird look of contentment on its face. 

“You’ll get used to the heat too, buddy,” he assures it, already looking through shelves of shirts and cutoffs. He eventually settles on a loose tank top and athletic shorts - he was never one for jeans or the heavy stitching of cargos. He pays what he owes and ushers his Pokémon out before the shopkeeper can get to asking the usual too many questions. Dressing in black may have dampened some others, but the gentle heat of the sun soaking into his clothes and skin is more comforting than he’d like to admit. Like a reassurance that he is actually in Alola, actually  _ living _ here. 

He finally checks into his motel room long after the sun had set. He switches on the lights and drops his gym bag on the bed, glancing over to the suitcase that had been brought over by the ferryman’s employees ahead of his arrival. He’s glad that he spent the extra money on the higher-end company for just that reason. He reaches for the Pokéball that he had passed over earlier, popping it off its clip. Sandshrew emerges with a sleepy yawn and blinks wearily at him, and Jolteon hops onto the bed to touch their noses together in greeting. He feels a wash of calm, seeing his partners safe and comfortable and together. Though the acute ache of paranoia gnaws at the back of his mind, he can at least sleep tonight knowing they are safe for now. 

Safe enough, anyway. 

He reaches out to pet the heads of his companions, murmuring a soft reassurance that maybe now their lives will be different. He slides into bed, where Jolteon stretches out against his back and Sandshrew lays behind his knees. He lies awake, staring at the room’s wall, until sleep finally, mercifully, takes him.

Waking up almost feels like an out of body experience. It takes him a while to remember where he is, why he’s there. Sandshrew is already awake, sunning itself in the window. Jolteon is curled under his arm, spooning-style, sleeping soundly with its nose twitching. He lays there a while longer, slowly running a hand through the golden fur. 

They walk to the town again, though this time they make a point to stop at the Pokémon Center. He returns people’s greetings with a nod; he still feels out of place, a foreigner with a level of anxiety that makes him careful not to offend anyone with strange mannerisms. Everyone just assumes he’s a tourist. He sticks to the customary Alola, and a simple yes or no to questions or offers of information. He gets a rundown of the general area’s customs, about the guardian deity Tapu Koko and its shrine, the Kahuna and the researcher, and where to find them. Locals tell him about the island trials. He is thankful to be here at this age; no one questions if he has badges, and no one expects him to take the challenge. He is free to just… be himself. No more expectations. No more need to brag about being a good trainer. 

He grabs a lemonade and three malasadas from the shop next door. Sandshrew holds the bag, and he holds Sandshrew. Its little claws are gentle on the paper, trying not to rip it, and it sniffs at the delightful scent that wafts from inside. He brings them to the beach down the street, where he finds an empty spot amongst the attendees. He removes his socks and shoes and arranges them next to him, tucking his feet up under his legs and offering Sandshrew a malasada. He holds Jolteon’s so it doesn’t get sand in it, and the three eat in silence, taking in the caws of the Wingull, the crash of the waves, and the chatter of happy people. It’s nice. It quiets the buzzing worry in his head and eases the numbness of a long-suffered depression. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start. 

Now empty-handed, Sandshrew digs a burrow into the hot sand and croons in contentment at being in its natural environment. Jolteon doesn’t mind the sand, but it makes a point of lying on its trainer’s chest to keep the grit out of its fur. He tries to focus on grounding himself, feeling the rays of the sun on his skin and the breeze of the sea ruffling his hair, the waves crashing against the shore and the intermingling chatter of Pokémon and people alike. His mind is quiet, and it’s nice to feel something like peace in his heart.

It takes a few days until he finally gets a phone call from the nearby park; he had left them a message days prior about an advert in the paper recruiting new rangers, and now he’s got a job. A  _ job.  _ He’s excited; it’ll feel less like he’s  _ in hiding  _ and more like he’s  _ living.  _ As the forest's newest ranger, he has the standard duties: protect wild Pokémon and visiting trainers, keep the environment safe, and make sure visitors don’t get lost. It sounded simple when he applied. And as he explores his new domain, it feels simple, too. He’s quick to settle into a comfortable routine. Despite trying to escape his old life, he does find comfort in being able to harness old coping mechanisms and familiarity to do his duty. 

The department head had mentioned to watch out for “suspicious characters.” She was talking about Team Skull, a local gang. He’d seen glimpses of their antics - trainers in matching clothes and graffiti that splattered signs and buildings. He hadn’t really paid her warning much mind; he knew what to watch out for. Years of paranoia and learning every nook and cranny of that forest in Johto had left him keen and wary, and this will be no different. Once he’s learned the details, he’ll become a ghost in the shadows of the swaying leaves. He can finally fade into quiet, into the background and be alone and safe and free. He figures the anxiety, the sadness, the fear will all stop in time. 

It  _ has _ to. 

A month passes. Thirty-six days, to be exact, before he meets  _ him _ .

The morning starts out the same as any; he gets up, gets dressed, and walks down the road towards the park. He passes that home with a Growlithe tied to a tree, and he tries to wave to it, but it just looks up at him from laying on the ground. He’s surprised it doesn’t feel the need to bark, not from the first time it saw him, but he’s not about to press his luck. He makes it to work with no problems and ducks into the east side of the park. 

He’s walking when an unfamiliar noise bounces through the trees, one that makes him stop in his tracks and cock his head to listen. Peals of children’s laughter ring through the air, which isn’t uncommon, but it’s accompanied by the strange skitters and chirps of a Pokémon. He doesn’t recognize its call right off the bat, so he decides to investigate just to be sure. He releases Jolteon from its ball, following its keen ears and nose until he reaches a pond.

A group of children encircle the pool, poking sticks and throwing small rocks at what he now sees is a Surskit. It skates wildly around the pond, feverishly searching for an escape from its tormentors. A sweet scent fills the air as it darts around, trying to summon other Pokémon for aid. Jolteon’s fur sparks with electricity as it barks at the children. It gets their attention, then they notice the ranger in uniform standing behind it and immediately run away screaming. He watches them go, frowning deeply. Once they leave, he turns back to the little Pokémon, recalling Jolteon into its ball. Surskit’s in the center of the pond, its little body twitching as it tries to catch its breath. The ranger kneels down to inspect it closer.

Right then, a Pokéball appears out of nowhere, and the poor thing can’t summon the energy to fight it off. The ball emits a proud ‘ding,’ bobbing gently on the water’s surface. Enraged at the  _ audacity _ , the ranger snaps his head around, his body whirling like a storm as he rises to his feet to face whoever was cowardly enough to catch a Pokémon that was in such a state. The offender raises his hands in a placating gesture.

“Yo, chill out. I’m cool with anyone who will protect my precious Bug Pokémon. I’m gonna get this little one healed up, don’t you worry about it.”

He clenches his jaw, the pressure making his teeth ache. Slowly, the rage dissipates as he inspects the man. He stands with a slouch; even so, the ranger can tell he’s insanely tall. He takes in the tattoos, the accessories, the cockiness. He looks like he’s got something to prove, like he’s showing off a status symbol. He’s… unique. Certainly fit the bill of a “suspicious character.” And further, while he’s not dressed the exact same, the golden pendant is a clear sign that this guy is involved with the infamous Team Skull. 

Even without all of that, he doesn’t trust the guy. He wouldn’t mind it so much if Surskit had just had a  _ chance  _ to fight back. The ranger kneels again, scooping up the Pokéball from the pond in soft hands as though it’ll compensate for the pain it had suffered. He stands up, wiping some of the droplets of water off the ball’s glossy surface. The man takes a few steps closer, but hesitates, apparently still wary. At least they’re on the same page; he’s feeling quite the same. 

“You’re being pretty protective over a wild Pokémon,” The guy points out.

“Yeah, well. I’m not a ranger because I like  _ people _ ,” he replies coolly, turning to face him. 

“You don’t even mind Bug types?” The tattooed man asks, cocking his head. He shakes his head, and the man seems to soften, so much so that the change in atmosphere is palpable. Makai tenses up in distrust. The stranger reaches for the ball, and he reflexively snatches it away.

“Hey, don’t worry, yo. I’ll take care of it, okay?” The man gives him a once-over. “What’s your name, anyways?”

The ranger scowls for a moment, a deep-set instinct telling him that these are unsafe waters. He asks, “What’s yours?” rather than answer. It makes the man throw his head back and laugh. 

“Well, you’re looking at the hardest man around, your boy Guzma! The big, bad boss of Team Skull, and the strongest trainer in all Alola!” 

Guzma. Interesting. Unique. He tastes it out, tries to say it, tries it on. The man laughs when he butchers it with his foreign accent and corrects his pronunciation. He rolls it around a few more times, until he thinks he’s close. “Guzma.” 

“Yep. That’s my name, don’t wear it out. Now, why don’t you give me  _ your  _ name in exchange?” Guzma adds, and for the first time since he got here, the ranger blanks. His tongue glues his mouth shut before he can even tell him. He hasn’t said his name since he stepped foot on the ship to Alola. The last thing he wanted was to bring his old life with him to his new home. 

He knows he’s taking too long to respond, because the guy’s getting suspicious, a little antsy. “Look, man. I just want t’ talk. That’s all. I want to help that Pokémon, just like you do.” There’s a gentle coaxing tone in his voice, and the ranger stiffens. It’s the kind of voice that he would use on a wild pokémon, trapped in a net or injured and scared. He wonders if that’s the kind of vibe he gives off. A feral man, more creature than person, one that needs a special tone of voice, a special brand of care. 

“Makai.” 

Guzma regards him for a minute before cracking a grin. “Well, Makai, we’ll see what the Alolan winds bring, huh? Maybe we’ll see each other again.” 

“Bet we will,” he replies flatly, which just earns another laugh. Makai finally hands the Pokéball over, figuring that in the end, it’s what’s best for Surskit. Guzma takes it; standing so close gives ample opportunity for them to size each other up. Then just like that, Guzma leaves, and Makai is alone again. 

His name isn’t Makai. It never has been. He didn’t even know he knew that word. He vaguely remembers the boat captain telling them a few local words and phrases, but he didn’t think he’d take them to heart or remember them. He hadn’t at the time, anyway. He hums thoughtfully, deciding he quite likes it. 

Makai. 

_ To the sea.  _

When he goes back to the office that night, he casually asks his boss about Team Skull. He tries not to look interested when she mentions their leader, how he has a reputation for ruthlessness, chaos, and destruction. He’s a wild card, a man who’s built up a team of ruffians, thugs, and castaways from seemingly nowhere in the past few years. They appear to be just local gangsters, most of the locals would say the same, but it doesn’t stop them from disappearing when Skull comes around. It’s mostly under control, his boss says, tapping the eraser end of her pencil against the desktop arrhythmically. He watches it bounce, distracted by the way she keeps changing the tempo, until she stops and he looks back up to her eyes. “But keep an eye out, will you?” She asks, and he agrees. She leans back, satisfied, and asks him if he’s settling in well. He doesn’t tell her about the incident in the woods. He doesn’t tell her about Guzma. 

Makai doesn’t see Guzma again for a while after that, but he does hear more rumors and whispers about him and Team Skull. How he went crazy and attacked his father before running away to start a gang of ruffians. How he’d failed his island challenge in his youth. How the members of Team Skull were all the troubled kids of the island, with nothing better to do than pester tourists and locals alike. Makai thinks back to Guzma, how different the optimistic and jovial man was from the stories they tell him. He doesn’t know what to believe, but he does know that rumors are never quite true. He tucks the information away to process later, and keeps an eye out for grunts. 

Eventually, Makai is forced to take a day off. He figures all this time in the forest has earned his Pokémon a day at the beach. Jolteon and Sandshrew chase each other through the sand, even daring to brave the shoreline where the waves can come lap at their feet and spray them with ocean mist. 

This is where he is when Guzma reappears.

He spots the white hair first, and Makai takes a closer look to find Guzma apparently mid-battle with two young men dressed in all-white uniforms that he recognised. Makai had heard bits and pieces about the Aether Foundation, but an immigrant ranger had no real reason to pay close attention to them. He studies the combatants; a Zubat and an Ekans are whaling on a bug Pokémon he’s never seen before, and Guzma looks to be about two seconds from jumping in there and fighting them for himself. 

Usually he isn’t one to interfere; Makai doesn’t  _ do  _ Pokemon battles. He had spent too many years just trying to survive to worry about training strong Pokémon and challenging gyms. He was always more worried about getting enough to eat. But battling is good for his boys, and Sandshrew is already sniffing the air excitedly. Guzma looks up and makes eye contact, and suddenly he doesn’t care about his own rules anymore and withdraws Jolteon.

“Go get them, boy. Dig,” Makai urges Sandshrew, and it dives up into the air with a burst of excited energy and burrows into the sand. There’s a few moments of nothing before suddenly Sandshrew is bursting out of the ground with an explosion of sand and shells. The Zubat falls to the ground, unconscious. The Ekans hisses and lunges, mouth open wide to bite, but Sandshrew’s Rollout takes it out with ease. The Aether kids recall their Pokémon and shout at Guzma that they’ll get him, glaring at Makai as he comes to Guzma’s side, before running off. 

  
  


Guzma turns to him and throws an arm around his shoulder. It’s heavy, and his skin burns with the contact. “Yo, you ain’t so bad, ranger! Thanks. I hate an unfair fight, y’know? Bullying Wimpod like that, it burns me up,” Guzma growls, and he looks genuinely  _ angry _ . He looks down at Sandshrew, who’s sniffing at the battered Wimpod. It seems to have barely the strength to stay awake. He kneels to collect his Pokémon into his arms and offers a hand to Sandshrew to sniff. Sandshrew inspects the man curiously. It turns to Makai for reassurance, and Guzma withdraws his hand. “So, why the valiant rescue? Tryin’ ta prove yourself? Lookin’ to join up with us or somethin’?” He asks, looking up at Makai. 

Makai sure as hell has no interest in joining a gang. He doesn’t even want people to know he  _ exists.  _ Causing trouble will only bring attention he won’t be able to shake. 

“Uh, pass,” he says. Guzma eyes him for a second, then laughs. 

“Aw, you sure? Let me at least buy you dinner. It’s the least I can do,” the boss adds, holding his bug Pokémon in his arms.

Makai reasons that there’s no real harm in saying yes. “I, uh. I guess,” he replies, and Guzma beams with too many teeth. 

“Great. Wait right here. Don’t move,” he commands, and takes off, leaving Makai completely alone and bemused. Sandshrew watches him leave curiously, then looks back up at its trainer. Makai picks it up and holds it close to his chest. His legs are glued to the sand and he can’t move, afraid to disobey a direct order. The sun is setting behind him, painting the sky with haphazard strokes of red and orange and pink. Sandshrew buries its face into his chest.

He’s actually sort of surprised to see Guzma return, holding a generic takeout bag. Part of him had expected Guzma to disappear. Wimpod is nowhere to be seen, probably safely away in a Pokéball, and Guzma picks up the pace when he sees Makai. He lifts the bag a little as he gets closer, showing off his accomplished mission. “Hope you like noodles, I sort of forgot to ask what you wanted,” he says, though his grin is anything but apologetic. The ranger doesn’t particularly mind, not with food. He follows Guzma down the beach a ways to where a pier juts out over the water; they sit at the end with their legs dangling over the edge, sea spray lightly misting their calves. Guzma pulls a fork and bowl from the bag, then passes it to Makai, who takes out a second bowl. He reaches first for a fork, but after seeing they’d thrown in chopsticks too, he uses those. Guzma is already fork-first into his own, and Makai pries off the lid to uncover an inviting, steaming bowl of hot noodles. He inspects the to-go bowl, the golden broth and the floating bits of vegetables and chunks of meat. Sandshrew noses at his food and he picks up a piece of meat and offers it to the creature, watches it nibble happily at his side. When it’s done, he puts it in its ball. 

“So, where ya from?” Guzma asks with his mouth full, pointing with his fork. Makai follows his point to his chopsticks, and suddenly he feels very self-conscious. He pokes at a floating piece of celery. 

“Is it that obvious?” Makai asks, sounding too glum for his own good, and Guzma chuckles.

“Little bit, bud, little bit. Not to mention, you’re pretty strong. If you were a local, I’d have heard of a skilled trainer like you. Especially one livin’ on  _ my _ island. I make it my business to know that kinda thing,” he says, and Makai spears at his noodles unhappily. 

“I’m not a trainer,” he protests. Guzma gives him a level stare, one that drags the truth out of him. “I’m originally from Johto, not that it matters. I never did all that gym nonsense. These guys are just my partners. We don’t train.”

“Bullshit,” Guzma spits, and Makai’s eyes narrow. “They’re too strong not to train. Plus, they listen to you.”

“ _ Partners, _ ” he reiterates with a flat look, and breaks eye contact immediately, filling his mouth with noodles to discourage further questions. 

Guzma scoffs. “Tch. Whatever,” he says, like he doesn’t believe him, but it seems he’s got enough sense to let it be. “Thanks for stepping in back there, anyway,” he adds, and Makai just nods. They eat in silence for a minute, watching the moon reflect over the waves and listening to the sound of gulls crying overhead. Makai would almost venture to say they were enjoying one another’s company. Guzma clears his throat. “By the way... Surskit is doing well. She hasn’t battled yet, but ah, she’s eating more, an’ starting to get braver.” 

Makai hums. “I’m glad,” he responds. It’s nice to hear that she’s doing alright, and that it hadn’t been a complete disaster the day of her rescue. And Guzma, well, he talks about loving bug Pokémon enough that Makai is starting to think she’s in good hands. “What do you do, anyway?” He asks, curious to see if he’ll own up to the rumors. 

“Oh, me? Hah! You’re in the presence of the big, bad boss of Team Skull. And,” Guzma adds, looking at him earnestly. Makai remembers him telling him that the day they met, but he doesn’t point it out. “I’m thinking there’s room on our team for the likes of you. For real. You’re pretty strong.”

Makai frowns, downing the last of his broth to avoid answering.  _ Strong.  _ He keeps repeating that word, and Makai doesn’t like it. It isn’t the right word to describe him. He’s not strong. He feels small and weak and scared. He’s paranoid. He’s on the run. His smile is too tight when he pulls away from his now-empty bowl. “Nah. I got a job to do. Gotta protect the shrine from vandals,” he replies, a casual accusation. At first Guzma looks offended, then he grins in good humor. 

“Well, Makai, door’s always open,” he offers, putting a hand on his shoulder and getting up. He leaves without another word, and Makai is left alone on the pier in dark, cool air. 

That night, Makai dreams of black forests and white hair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Makai answers a call to action.

For a few weeks, Makai only ever catches sight of Guzma in fleeting moments. He first sees him walking into a clothing shop with a proud-looking woman whose hair is twisted into pink and yellow braids. He admires her style, and how she makes Guzma laugh so hard that his head gets thrown back. Another time, Makai is walking home from work when he spots Guzma being tailed by a group of punks. By his guess, they range between teen-aged and their early twenties. Guzma motions for them to be quiet, and Makai can see the wickedness in his grin from here. They duck into a back alley, and the ranger decides that whatever happens next is not something he wants to be a part of. 

The whole  _ not seeing Guzma _ thing was only possible because Makai made sure to vary his schedule and routes constantly: taking different roads home or keeping irregular hours at work so he could never be tailed, never be followed, never be watched. Safety, though others would call it paranoia. He bites his tongue at the word. They have no idea. 

One day, when he’s taking the long way home, it works against him. The sun is at its hottest where it’s blazing against a clear blue sky, so Sandshrew is rolling along beside him in a tight ball. It zips back and forth, scampering far behind him then taking a running start to ball up next to him again. It’s cathartic, in a way, watching his trusted companion show him how comfortable it feels. It had never been safe or relaxed enough to roll back in Johto.

As he walks past a small group of buildings, Makai tugs his hat down further, hiding himself from the few pedestrians hanging around. He  _ almost  _ makes it out of the area unnoticed, but Sandshrew stops rolling, sniffs the air and runs to plaster itself to Makai’s leg. That’s the only warning he gets before a jovial voice calls his name. Wincing at the attention, he turns around, ready to go on the defensive. But the anxiety’s hold on his throat loosens when he sees it’s Guzma approaching. 

Since their last meeting, he’s garnered plenty of information about Team Skull and their infamous leader. Failing the island challenge, starting the gang, causing all kinds of trouble... If he’s honest, when he heard locals whisper of the gang’s  _ nefarious  _ deeds, he’d scoffed out loud; Team Skull doesn’t hold a  _ candle  _ to Team Rocket, to the terrorists that had always hung over his town like a black cloud. A little vandalism and petty theft was  _ laughable.  _

So he doesn’t  _ mind _ seeing Guzma coming up to him. He’s far better company than any bastard on this island, anyway. It’s not that Makai  _ missed  _ Guzma. They’re just acquaintances, locals that coexist with one another, ships passing in the night. Except, Guzma is close enough that Sandshrew is staring up at him, slowly loosening its hold on Makai’s leg once it recognizes who is here. Sandshrew’s inherent lack of fear needles in the back of Makai’s mind. Fear was how they’d survived this far. Strangers weren’t to be trusted. But he doesn’t have time to consider it, because Guzma’s here and he’s talking. Asking how he’s been, how the jungle job is going, if his grunts had messed with him at all. 

In truth, they  _ hadn’t.  _ In fact, he’d only rarely caught glimpses of the punk kids lurking around the jungle. The ones that were heading towards the shrine would turn tail the moment they saw him passing by, but oftentimes Makai would stumble upon a group of kids hanging out in an isolated corner, somewhere safe away from the world. He understands, he does. He’d always make himself scarce before they could figure out they’d been spotted. They were charming, in their own way. Dropping rhymes, squatting like their boss, acting tougher than they were, always causing trouble in the name of their gang. Some people took them seriously. Others didn’t. It seemed to be a secondary issue in Alola, more of a nuisance than a danger. They didn’t pose  _ him  _ any danger, so Makai didn’t ever bother confronting them. 

But sometimes,  _ sometimes,  _ grunts would wander into his forest, cross his path, and they’d turn tail and run before Makai had a chance to approach them. One time, just once, he locked eyes with one of them, and a flash of something like  _ recognition  _ or  _ fear  _ crossed his face and Makai had to spend the next three days convincing himself that it wasn’t possible he could be recognized here, that it had just been a mistake on his own part. 

“Makai?”

Makai shakes his head, comes back to the present. Guzma’s looking at him with something that echoes  _ worry, _ but Makai knows that can’t be right. 

“Sorry,” he fumbles, looking back down at Sandshrew to give himself something to focus on besides Guzma. It looks up at him and grabs at him the way it does when it wants to climb up his leg, so he reaches down and picks it up. It settles quietly in his arms, drawing Guzma’s attention. “What were you saying?”

“Uh, hi, for starters?” Guzma says, cocking a brow. He reaches a tentative hand out for Sandshrew to sniff, and it touches its nose to the tips of his fingers. All three of them hold their breath, just for a beat; just long enough to still the air between them. “You been doing okay?” Guzma looks back at his face, taking his hand away to give Sandshrew time to think, and it presses into Makai for comfort. He strokes a thumb along its scales. “Ya look tired.”

And  _ hell,  _ he is. Makai is  _ always _ tired. Makai has been tired since the day he was born. The kind of tired that makes his eyes hurt and bags darken underneath, the kind that settles in his bones like the chill from the icy wind of Mt. Silver that he can never seem to shake. It comes from nights pacing new paths into the forest, cutting through looming shadows and eerie branches, chasing sleep that he never gets. 

“I am,” he replies. 

Guzma doesn’t seem to mind his short manner of speaking. He just folds his arms across his chest and leans back. “You ever need a break, ya know you’re welcome at Po Town.”

Makai hums, noncommittal. He doesn’t have a good reason  _ not  _ to visit Guzma. Well, besides the fact that he’s some type of criminal who seems to be allowed to roam the islands freely. Makai still can’t figure out why the locals just let the gang run amok. Maybe Guzma didn’t actually  _ do  _ everything he’s rumored to have done. The so-called “king of destruction” could just be a joke. Or maybe, perhaps more likely, people just look past it because he really  _ is  _ dangerous, and Makai just happens to be one of the lucky ones on his good side. 

Guzma isn’t deterred. He tells him there’s plenty of room in the mansion, that it’s Skull’s own little safe haven. He talks about Po Town, how it feels like home. Makai isn’t sure what the invitation means, but he doesn’t decline it. There’s something about the easy way Guzma talks to him, the way he drops his hostility and even gets a little boastful, that lifts the tension from Makai’s shoulders whenever he’s around. In the end, he kept to the jungle and kept his own company. He just wasn’t one to socialise. But with Guzma...

Guzma eventually bids him goodbye when his phone lights up with a call, even pausing to wave to Sandshrew, who cocks its head at him, ears twitching curiously. Once he’s out of sight, Makai makes himself scarce so nobody else will find him. 

Makai could be honest, could tell Guzma he can’t come to Po Town because he still wakes up screaming some nights, and other nights his tongue glues his mouth shut and he’ll just lie there in terror until the paralysis passes. He can’t come, because being near strangers too long makes him feel watched for days after, nameless faces lingering every time he closes his eyes. 

But more importantly, he can’t leave, can’t even  _ rest  _ because there’s something he needs to take care of first. He doesn’t really have the time or energy to keep tabs on Guzma or Skull right now, or visit their domain, or stop and sleep. Something held him back, just a fleeting moment that led to a snowballing chain of events and he can’t leave, not yet. 

On one particularly hot night, Makai had left work late - he’d been carrying cold water to the pond all afternoon, to help level out the temperature for Pokémon to drink. 

He dropped the bucket off once the sun went below the canopy of the trees, locking up the shed. All he could hear was the cacophony of nocturnal Pokémon chattering and chirping, bidding him goodnight. Makai glanced up at the sky, where the moon hung heavy and full against an obsidian backdrop, its light so bright it washed out the stars. He stopped at the fork in the road and chewed his tongue for a moment before heading left instead of right - the roundabout way home. He’d wanted to commit the night to memory. He’d wanted to remember.

He’d taken his time walking home, kicking rocks down the street and watching them bumble and bounce along. He was lost in his thoughts until suddenly, the sound of a man shouting had his heart leaping into his throat and his head snapping around to find the source, his neck twinged in painful protest at the sudden movement. The familiar bark of a Growlithe rang through the air, and the man’s screaming grew louder. Makai froze in place, waiting, watching, expecting more, and the more time passed, the harder it got to breathe. His body reacted for him, years of self-preservation kicking in at the threat. His calves were coiled tight, ready to send him running, his hands trembling at his sides and his shoulders tensing. 

He couldn’t move, because if he was caught running, the punishment would be far worse. 

All he could do was freeze. 

Eventually, the man’s voice died with one last echoing boom, and the Growlithe fell silent. Minutes ticked on slowly, and when Makai’s heart rate slowly started to come down from its Beedrill buzzing, he found the numbness in his legs fading away. He took an uncertain step, then another, creeping down the street. He finally laid eyes on the scene of the crime - it was that same home with a large oak tree he’d passed weeks prior, and tethered to the tree by a chain was the Growlithe itself. He took in its mangy, skinny appearance, the upturned water bowl and the packed ring of dirt around the trunk. Clearly the Pokémon never left that spot. 

He had managed to make it past without getting caught up in his thoughts, and all but  _ sprinted  _ home. The stretch was long, and his feet pounded hard against the pavement, his breath coming in awful, ragged gasps that shredded his lungs, spurred on by the dark clouds in his mind that were pushing him to  _ survive _ . He’d thrown himself into his home, nearly breaking the lock with his panicked urgency, and locked up before the haunting echoes of the man’s scream caught up to him. 

Unfortunately for him, the night was a long and sleepless one. He was left pacing his cage, his head and teeth aching from how long he clenched his jaw. The demons from that house crawled all over him, smothering him in agonizing guilt, and all he could see was Growlithe’s eyes, burning with hatred for him. His lungs never stopped hurting. 

Makai quickly forgot about Guzma and Skull and Alola and the darkness that tinted the edges of his vision, all of it overtaken by the haunting image of the Growlithe in the yard. Makai found himself walking home along that path more often than not, watching as the man occasionally remembered to throw it food or give it some water - he’d even seen him pour a can of beer into the empty bowl once. It made him burn, burn red hot; everything felt too sharp whenever he went near that street. He knew how to handle things like this. 

He wanted to be rational, wanted to remind himself that there was no chance that his father was in that house. Yet he still worried - what if he was caught and arrested, and they contacted his family? What if they saw him in the news? Or hell, what if he  _ did  _ get recognized? Was one Pokémon worth taking on that man? Even from afar, Makai can recognize that he was dangerous;  _ something  _ held people back from approaching him about Growlithe, surely? But then, he’d never left behind a Pokémon in need, so ignoring Growlithe who so clearly needed  _ something  _ to happen made him sick, bags heavy under his eyes and acid dissolving his stomach from the inside _.  _ His conscience warred with itself; his fear of this one man against his need to help the Pokemon. His hands would claw into the sheets every night that he kept leaving that Growlithe to suffer alone, every time he left the Pokemon in the hands of the man. He’d burn with hatred every time he looked in a mirror. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t  _ right.  _

He had to do  _ something. _

The sky is inky black and the moon is nowhere to be found when Makai finally leaves the jungle. He’s holding the Capture Styler he snagged from storage at work -- he can return it before anyone knew it was missing. He’s got a  _ plan.  _ Growlithe howls its agonies into the night air, that song that echoes in his own heart. The door of the home slams open and the silhouette of his father raises the bottle high into the air. Makai squeezes his eyes shut, arms covering his head on instinct, flinching from the offending bottle, though he’s on the other side of the road and well hidden amongst a row of palm trees. He presses his hands into the bark in front him, searching for something to hold onto, his nails digging in like claws. The glass shatters and a yelp pierces the air before the door slams shut again. 

When the swell of nausea finally rolls over and past him, Makai unpins himself from the tree and surveys the damage. He’s completely untouched, of course, but he still checks, hands brushing over old wounds, ghosting past old scars, wondering if he’ll ever outgrow the fear. 

Growlithe, though, stands with its chain pulled taut, struggling against the restraint, trying to get as far from the offending bottle as possible. Makai watches as the lights in the house go out, and he moves before he can rethink what he’s about to do. As he approaches, Growlithe stares at him with wide, fearful eyes. It bares its fangs in flashes of white, snarling and snapping at the intruder on its territory. Makai holds his hands low and level, trying to soothe it. 

It lunges without warning, sinking its fangs deep into his arm before retreating again. Makai hisses through his teeth as blood wells up and spills from the bite, clenching his jaw to stop himself from making a sound and clapping a hand over the wound. 

Apologizing to the dog, because he can’t think of any other way to do this, he draws Sandshrew from its ball as he wrangles the Capture Styler’s rope around Growlithe’s body. He gives the order to Tackle; despite the unusual demand, Sandshrew obeys without question, and Growlithe collapses, too weak to stand against the attack. It’s unconscious before it even hits the ground, and Makai closes his eyes against the overwhelming wave of guilt as he pulls a ball from his bag. He activates the button, pressing it gently to the Pokémon’s limp body; he just can’t bring himself to toss it. He orders Sandshrew to break the chain, and its claws crush down hard on the now-empty metal, leaving behind evidence of a different story. Growlithe wasn’t taken away, wasn’t stolen; it just  _ escaped _ . 

The ball doesn’t even twitch, the Pokémon inside too weak to fight. He feels no sense of victory as he holds the now warm ball in his hands. Makai withdraws Sandshrew, pockets his Styler, and disappears before the occupants of the house can spot him. 

Makai goes home and stumbles to the bathroom where he washes and dresses the bite, avoiding his own reflection and clenching his jaw against the pain until it’s wrapped up and the burn fades to a dull throb. He releases Sandshrew and Jolteon, then crawls into bed, lying down on his right side so that his left arm is loose and free. Jolteon immediately comes to investigate, sniffing at the dressing and whining. Makai hushes it until it lays itself against his arm, putting its head on the gauze. The pressure aches, but he just curls his hand into a loose fist and doesn’t move while Sandshrew comes to make itself comfortable behind his legs. Makai spends a sleepless night staring at the gauze and the Pokéball that sits on his bedside table, glaring red back at him.

When morning comes, he forgoes work to stay hidden away in his room. He lets Growlithe out of the ball, and there’s a moment of tension, its body coiled tight like it can’t decide whether it wants to run and hide or take another bite out of him. His heart thuds too heavy once in his chest, and just like that, it's over. Growlithe zips away to find a place to hide and ends up under a table where it watches him with fear. Makai spends the day lying on the couch with Jolteon asleep on his chest, Sandshrew moving around the room to bask in the sun. He watches the television with little real interest, trying not to check on Growlithe too often. It barely moves from its hiding spot under the table in the corner, staring at Makai without trust. 

He gets it. He is no stranger to fear. 

Makai keeps his movements slow, and his patience eventually pays off. Though it’s still extremely wary, he manages to at least convince the Growlithe to come out of hiding for a moment by cooking it some food. The scent has it sniffing at the air, watching him with wary curiosity. He leaves a plate on the floor, far away from his place on the couch. Two hours pass, but Growlithe slinks out with slow, calculated movements. Makai barely breathes while it cautiously makes its way to the plate. It sniffs at it carefully, still watching Makai, and when it’s sure it won’t be attacked, it inhales its meal with desperation. It goes back under the table once the plate is clean and flipped over, but it’s still a good amount of progress for one day. 

It takes a few days, but Growlithe’s hiding place slowly gets closer. On day three, Makai’s playing a game on his phone when he feels the Pokémon approach. He shuts the screen off to watch its reflection as it slinks towards the couch. It sits at the far corner of it , where it’s out of his reach, and just watches him. A baby step in the right direction comes when Jolteon crawls down his body, reaching out to touch noses with it. Growlithe bares its fangs, but Jolteon just rumbles a curious sound in its chest that seems to soothe it. It looks back at him, and Makai slowly drops a hand off the couch. But that seems to be more than it can handle right then; it takes one look and bolts, and they’re back to square one. 

But it shows an admirable tenacity and comes back. Makai doesn’t look at it while it approaches, until he feels the cold, wet nose nudge his hand, sniffing, investigating. It’s stiff as a board, ready to run or fight, but Makai is careful to give it no reason to. 

“Hey,” Makai says, soft. Growlithe freezes, but it doesn’t run. Good. “I trust you. I will keep you safe. Do you trust me?” he asks, with gentle hope. 

There’s a long, long pause.

Growlithe noses its head into his hand. He scratches slowly, gently, tries to teach it the feeling of kindness as his fingers thread through its patchy fur. Bares his own fears to it, and in response, it slowly allows itself to be curious about him. 

The day he’s able to reach a hand out to Growlithe and have it approach with only a moment’s hesitation, Makai goes back to the woods.

He inhales the comforting scent of bark and leaves and dirt as he walks slowly through the woods, avoiding worn paths and tourist trails until he eventually finds himself a big, sturdy tree to sit under. He drops to the ground with a grunt of effort, his back hitting the tree trunk a little too hard. He slowly breathes out, tries to feel the sun on his face and the touch of sweat on his back from the heat. The low chatter of familiar Pokemon welcomes him home. 

He counts slowly as he breathes in again, his eyes falling shut, trying to keep himself grounded in the moment. The clawing hands of his past loosen their hold briefly, the haunting call of Johto melting into the song of Oricorio and Toucannon. 

Suddenly, a looming shadow blacks out the sun, breaking his peace, and he jerks in reflex as he looks up to find the tall figure of Guzma. How he’d found him, buried deep in his sanctuary, Makai can’t be sure. Guzma looks only a little concerned at his response, head tilted to the left, but his hands on his hips show that he means business. 

“So? How is he?”

Makai eyes him suspiciously, drawing one knee up to plant a foot firm on the ground, getting himself ready to make tracks. “Who?”

Guzma scoffs, rolling his eyes. “C’mon. Don’t play stupid.” Makai glares up at him, and Guzma lowers a hand to signal him to calm down. 

He... does. Somehow.

“For what it’s worth, the guy didn’t deserve that Growlithe anyway. Trust me. I, ah, I know him.” Guzma pauses, then adds, “Yeowch. And ya even got the teeth,” and Makai follows his pointed gaze to the bandage on his arm. Makai swiftly covers it with his other hand, for what little good that does. “I’m just glad someone finally had the guts to do something.”

The ranger decides against asking him  _ how  _ he knows about Growlithe, catching himself reflexively reaching to cover the ball with a jerk of his elbow. The move doesn’t go unnoticed by the Skull boss, but Makai quickly folds his hands back into his lap, sitting up off the trunk of the tree, and focuses on the laces of Guzma’s shoes. “He’s getting better,” he answers. “I don’t know what else I could have done.” 

Guzma chuckles, tossing his head back in that way of his. That makes Makai’s mind skid to a stop; since when did he know Guzma well enough to know his mannerisms? He shakes his head minutely. He  _ doesn’t _ . Guzma doesn’t seem to take notice.

“Least ya did somethin’,” he says, with a shrug. “Listen, I was serious before, an’ I’m even  _ more  _ serious now. I want you on my team.” Guzma crosses his arms, the skulls on his forearms touching to create a bizarre infinity symbol. Makai considers it for a moment, considers taking up the look and assimilating himself into a town full of punk grunts. He tries to imagine a stronger self. “You pull shit like that, there’s plenty of room for ya in Team Skull.”

“I…” Makai trails off, unsure how to respond. He knows what he  _ wants _ to say, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t pull the ‘no’ from his throat and it lodges there, impossible to swallow around. The world is suddenly growing smaller, too small, trapping and cornering him and everything is sharp colors and sharper edges. 

Guzma takes a step back, his hands up in front of him placatingly. Makai can feel the burn of shame on his face, but he can’t help it. “Just think it over.”

Makai does more than ‘just think it over’. He  _ obsesses _ , weighing the pros and cons, trying to battle his own demons while figuring out what to do next, pulled between safety in numbers and safety in solitude. Does he really want to be a grunt in some gang? Doing dirty work that’ll bring attention to him, good, bad, and otherwise? He already has so much to hide, and the ground is moments from crumbling around him at any time and he barely has the strength to stand. Stagnancy will only kill him. But that means facing an entire town full of strangers, looking to poke and prod and reach into his throat and drag his secrets out into the open, and he’ll have nowhere to run. 

But there’s also something else, something about Guzma that seems so  _ inviting,  _ a will-o-wisp that wants to lead him out of the jungle and towards the desolate Po Town. And he wouldn’t mind having backup, if he were to need it. A place to hide, a crowd to hide amongst, connections when he needs them, Guzma to stand beside, his endless well of anger at the world to draw strength from. Makai is pulled towards the idea of having somewhere he can’t be followed, somewhere his parents will never find him, somewhere Johto is only a haunting memory. 

It’s tempting. Tempting enough to convince Makai to meet Guzma down at the pier a few nights later. He crosses the beach, taking care not to step on the Pyukumuku that rest in numbers on the white sand, and sees the slouched figure that he knows to the point of instant recognition. That familiarity has him mentally back-pedalling, reeling over what being here means and how he’d gotten here in the first place. He stops just short of the pier, staying on the sand as he takes a final moment to think about what he’s here for. He’s just here to talk. He watches Guzma, watches the sea breeze ruffle his ever-disastrous hair, mussing it even further, his hands shoved deep into his pockets and his coat ruffling around them. The skull on his back stares at Makai, daring him to come closer. The gang’s leader doesn’t look like the monster everyone had described him as; there are no black clouds storming over his head, no extra pairs of monstrous arms tipped with thick claws, no burning flames or burning eyes. Makai breathes in slowly once, and breathes out as he steps onto the pier. Guzma turns his head over his shoulder just in time to watch Makai approach, and he looks… relieved. Like he’d been banking on standing alone on that pier and giving up with clear rejection. But Makai being here means… well, it means something to him. Makai stops a few feet back, his own hands in his pockets, wary. 

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Guzma says. It’s strange; his usual loud boastfulness is gone, and there’s only a quiet calm to him, like he’s admitting to a lost dream, or taming a beast. Hell, maybe he is. Or maybe he’s just being respectful of the night’s stillness. 

“Me either,” Makai admits, and for once, Guzma’s smile is made of something gentler. It coaxes him forward, and Makai stands beside the boss on the pier, watches the moon skip over crashing waves. 

“What made you change your mind?” Guzma asks, looking up at the sky. 

Makai frowns down at the pitch black water. “I never made it up in the first place,” he corrects him. Makai considers how honest he’s being; he had made his decision the moment he had stepped onto the pier. Guzma huffs a laugh. “If you want me on your team, I can’t just be some grunt,” Makai adds. If worse comes to worst, Makai needs the power to get as much distance between himself and his parents as possible. He needs to be able to utilize escape routes and create distractions. The point of this is  _ protection.  _

Guzma looks at him, and with his slouch, they’re at eye level with each other. Makai wonders, distantly, how tall he really is. They’re standing too close to one another, though neither of them move to make space. Makai meets his gaze for just a beat, just long enough to register that his eyes are ice white and full of something far kinder than Makai deserves. 

“Ya never were,  _ ranger, _ ” Guzma tells him. Makai takes that with him to the darkest hour, when he is alone at night. 

When daylight comes, Makai is standing outside of Po Town’s looming gates. Littered with graffiti and accented by the black clouds of an oncoming storm, it’s anything but welcoming to strangers. Makai resists the urge to tug his hood up and knocks on the gates.

The door opens to a girl who looks at him with apprehension, but something like realization quickly appears on her face. “Oh! Mister Makai, you’re here!”

_ Mister  _ makes him feel like acid is dissolving on his tongue and he spits off to the side. “Just… just Makai,” he corrects her, following her inside. He side-steps away when she goes to close the gate behind him. 

“The boss is in his room, if you want me to take you there,” she offers. 

Makai motions for her to lead the way, ducking the constant feeling of being watched, dodging the curious onlookers that litter the streets. Broken down cars and messy buildings and punk kids decorate the gloomy landscape. Wherever he looks, it’s unfamiliar and unwelcoming. It feels nothing like Johto, and that’s… oddly appealing. There’s comfort in being in the forest that comes from spending his entire childhood hiding away in the secret groves outside his hometown, but this is entirely new. The more he looks, the more colorful liveliness he finds. His fingers twitch for his Pokémon, but he leaves them safe and unseen in their balls. The more people he sees, the more he realizes that this really  _ is  _ just a gang of lost and rowdy kids - kids who watch him curiously, a newcomer in their home. He’s older than the majority by far, though there are many that are in their twenties. How Guzma ended up the boss of a bunch of lost teens isn’t entirely impossible to puzzle. He demanded strength where weakness would otherwise reign, if Makai were to put the feeling into words. Gave the hopeless one last option. Gave the angry one more chance. 

The girl leads him through a dilapidated mansion, and they have to take the stairs to the left because a chandelier has crashed on the right side. He frowns in distaste; the idea of leaving  _ any  _ mess behind still has him tensing up in fear. At the top there is a door, with a pair of grunts posted on either side like bodyguards. Makai wonders how necessary that protection is while they openly stare at him.  _ Clearly  _ he’s been talked about, if he were to read their faces. He just isn’t quite able to puzzle out  _ what _ , exactly, might have been said _.  _

She opens the door and he steps in to find Guzma focused on a laptop, sitting on a pseudo-throne, which is really an armchair on a knocked over bookshelf. His attention is drawn when the door opens, and he beams widely when he sees who it is. 

“So, ya finally decided to show up!” Guzma booms, and Makai checks out the room; the shelves of liquor bottles, the chest that’s half-filled with crystals he doesn’t recognize, the closet with a pile of dirty clothes in various shades of black and white, and Wimpod staring up at him fearfully from under the oddly clean bed. No exits. Guzma hops off his chair and Makai watches him carefully. “I wasn’t sure you’d still come.” 

This isn’t the first time Guzma has acknowledged his flightiness. Maybe that understanding is why he came, why all those kids out there have flocked to this desolate town and praise the boss like he is some kind of martyr. Or maybe he’s just reading too far into things. Can’t help his caution, after all.

“You are... convincing,” Makai replies, and Guzma preens under the compliment while the ranger kneels to wave to Wimpod, who watches him with caution. As Makai stands, he catches a strange expression on Guzma’s face that quickly disappears. Guzma gets up off his throne and breezes past him to open the door for them. Makai falls in step beside him, ignoring the curious looks from the door guards. 

“Though I cannot leave the forest. Not yet,” he adds quickly. He can’t bear the idea of leaving the one safe haven he’d crafted for himself on this island, no matter what Guzma has to say. 

Guzma sets his jaw, clearly thinking. “Long as you stay loyal to the gang, I don’t see a problem with it,” he says with dismissive ease, knocking on a door. “This is great. If it’s you an’ me, we can beat anybody down!” Makai doesn’t have a chance to respond before the door opens and reveals that same woman with pink hair who he’d seen weeks before. She leans in the doorframe, blocking the way, and her eyes are immediately boring into him. 

“Hey, Plums, this is Makai,” Guzma says, and Makai bows his head to her. She gives him a once over, and he gets the impression that she doesn’t like what she sees. Maybe she doesn’t trust strangers. No matter her personal opinion, she steps aside and allows them into the room, and Guzma walks in, making himself at home leaning against her table. Makai frowns, plastering himself against the wall next to the door while she shuts it. “Makai, this is Plumeria, my right hand gal and baddest bitch around.”

Plumeria smirks at his introduction, tilts her head at them. “G’s told me about you. Good job with Growlithe,” she says, and his heart sinks in his chest. She must see the look of dismay on his face, because she continues. “Everyone knows what you did. That just so happened to be Guzma’s uncle that you stole from.” She pauses, looking between both men. 

Makai furrows his brow, turning to Guzma for an explanation. He shifts his weight from one leg to another, and Makai can see a flicker of nervous uncertainty. But it’s gone as quick as it comes, and Guzma folds his arms defensively across his chest. 

Plumeria’s eyebrows raise suddenly in realization. “...He didn’t tell you.”

Guzma chuckles, actually sounding  _ nervous _ , and waves a hand dismissively. “Didn’t think it was important.” He meet’s Makai’s expectant gaze and folds his arms once more. “Look. What matters is you did it, and ya did it fast, and ya did it clean. He thinks it ran away, and you’re up one Pokémon.” 

The wash of relief is near dizzying at the news; he hadn’t been able to look at Growlithe without feeling fear that the man would hunt him down. As time continues to pass, as the Pokémon gains weight and recovers, slowly but surely, he can only hope it will become unrecognizable.

“Let’s hope you can keep it up for Skull,” she says; it sounds almost like a warning, and that’s all it takes to have Makai bowing his head politely and fleeing the room. Guzma follows him, and doesn’t bring the topic up again, much to Makai’s relief. He just takes him to another bedroom, procuring a key and unlocking it as he talks about the mansion.

“This’ll be yours,” Guzma says, stepping out of the way to let Makai in. He peers in warily, checking the layout. There’s another door on the far side. The room is bare save for a bed and a dresser, but Makai isn’t one to need much more than that. The simplicity is inviting. 

“What about my place?” Makai asks, and Guzma shrugs. 

“Ditch it. Save your money.” 

Makai finally steps into the room, once the bomb in his chest has been defused. He can feel Guzma’s eyes on his back but he can’t seem to mind the way he usually would. He goes to the door, unlocking the two deadbolts and opening it up. It leads to a small terrace, overlooking the side and back of the mansion and the walls beyond. He steps back inside and locks the door back tight.

“Oh,” Guzma starts, and Makai looks at him again. “This is for you,” he adds, and holds a cupped hand out. The ranger only hesitates for a breath before moving to take whatever Guzma wants to give him. A silver chain pools in his palm, a familiar skull insignia settling firmly on top. He stares at it for a moment. “Welcome to the family,” Guzma says, and their eyes meet for a second. Just a second, just long enough to get Makai thinking, and then Guzma leaves with a quick good night, the door clicking shut with finality. 

With Guzma gone, the unfamiliar room is suddenly much less comforting. It closes around him a little like a prison cell, his own anxieties keeping him trapped inside so he won’t be assaulted by nosy grunts. With nausea rolling low in his stomach, he reaches for his belt for company and settles on Growlithe’s ball. He presses the button and the Pokémon freezes in the room, looking at its unfamiliar surroundings. Makai reaches his hands out and convinces it closer, and they spend the next few hours sitting on the floor, Makai running gentle fingers through scarlet fur while they slowly grow accustomed to their room, to the idea of being Skull’s latest enforcer. 

He runs his thumb over the pendant, contemplating, then tosses the chain over his head and feels it settle on his neck like it belongs there. He idly touches the skull and tries to memorize the room. The walls are light gray, unmarked, as if the room had long been abandoned, though there’s a small dent in the wall from the door being slammed open one too many times. The bed has only one small pillow and a thick black blanket, but even that is far more luxury than he’s used to. The carpet is deep red and worn down, and the dresser is the same rich brown as the trees that populate his forest home. One long inhale, one longer exhale. Growlithe looks up at him, and he meets its eye. There’s no hostility for once, just warm brown sugar that watches for his next move. He stays there, petting the Pokémon and soaking in the room that will become his home, for now. He can’t know how long this will last, but for now, only for now, he can rest. 

The peace, however, doesn’t last. As the sun sets, the shadows grow longer with reaching fingers that hope to dig into his skin and soon he’s jumping at ghosts that disappear when he looks at them head on. While it’s not much, his little bungalow feels invitingly safer right now. He pokes his head out of the room around midnight— he isn’t quite ready to stay in the mansion. Not yet. Growlithe is back in its ball, lest they run into trouble. He closes his door carefully so it doesn’t make a noise, and locks it behind him. 

“You’re leaving?”

Makai startles badly, whipping around and pinning himself to the door. Guzma’s down the hall, hands in his pockets, looking too forlorn for his own good. Makai shakily lets out his breath when he recognizes who it is and nods. 

“Oh.” Guzma looks like Makai just told him his pet Goldeen died. Makai peels off of the door, but the leftover fear still makes his heart pound. He feels the demanding need to answer for his actions. 

“Not forever,” Makai assures him, and that brightens the boss’s mood astronomically. “I’m just…” Just what? He couldn’t very well tell Guzma why he ran, why stagnancy meant the fire behind him would lick at his heels and engulf him in devouring flames. Every lie he tries to tell falls flat in the back of his throat, and nothing really feels like a proper response. He hasn't seen it for himself yet, but the boss’s explosive anger is notoriously scary, and he isn’t trying to set it off so soon. “Not ready,” he settles on, moving away from the door and down the hallway. 

“I see.” It’s the simplest possible answer, but it’s enough to have Makai pausing in his steps, looking back to Guzma, who straightens out his slouch just a little at the attention. It reminds him of something, when the air stills. They’re both waiting. 

“I don’t have to leave just yet,” Makai hears himself say, and Guzma grins at him, one that reaches his eyes. Makai likes how they crinkle at the edges, where purple dusts his lids. That is the answer he was looking for. Guzma motions him to follow, and Makai does. The boss leads him to a window and pushes it open, stepping out onto the roof. Makai plants his hands on the windowsill, leaning out to check the area. He follows Guzma out after he figures out the layout of the roof, and they head left, to where there is a flat section. Guzma sits down so his legs dangle off the side, though Makai doesn’t join him until he pats the empty space beside him. The ranger settles in next to him, with a respectable few inches between them. 

“Ya ever smoked a blunt?” Guzma asks, voice low, like he’s indulging him with a secret. Makai shakes his head; he’d been too focused on trying to survive day to day to ever venture into drugs. Guzma pulls a baggie from his pocket, retrieving the rolled paper inside. He puts it to his lips and Makai watches as he cups a hand around the end, flicking his lighter a few times before it finally catches and the tip flares red with flame. The fire lights the edges of his features, a warm contrast to the cool moonlight, dancing over the shadows on his face. Guzma inhales long and slow, and his eyes slip closed as he holds his breath. Makai watches the smoke tendril from his nose and then come out in a cloud when Guzma parts his lips. It’s interesting, to see the stress fall away from the man’s face as he takes another hit. Once the smoke is trailing from his mouth again, he offers it to Makai. He takes it with a tentative hand, like it’ll bite him, and presses it to his lips.

“That’s it. Now just breathe in. Nice and easy,” Guzma encourages gently. Makai obeys, and the burn is immediate in his throat. He tries not to cough, but it fails and he gives in, coughing into his arm. Guzma shushes him softly and he swallows around the urge to cough again. “Good… C’mon. One more,” he urges softly, and Makai repeats the movement. It’s easier this time, now that he knows what to expect, and he manages to exhale maybe half of it before he coughs again. “Yeah… There ya go. How’s that feel?” 

Makai closes his eyes to focus on just feeling. His head feels a little floaty, his anxiety slowly quieting. He hands the blunt to Guzma, and their fingertips brush in passing. 

“Good,” he says. He meets Guzma’s eye, and they’ve got a glassiness to them that makes the white ice really shine.

“Yeah?” Guzma asks, taking another hit. Makai admires how practiced his movements are, how the moonlight makes Guzma’s hair soft around the edges. They pass the blunt back and forth. Makai tries to keep up, but Guzma holds it far longer and eventually Makai just watches the smoke dance into the night air from Guzma’s fingers. His head feels weird. Not bad. Just… weird.

“How come you’re leavin’?” Guzma finally asks, and Makai can feel the implied  _ coward _ in his voice. The ranger pulls his legs up and hugs them to his chest. The blunt sits in between Guzma’s fingers, momentarily forgotten. 

“I’m sorry,” Makai tries to tell him. 

Guzma frowns at him, and Makai has to avert his gaze to brace himself for whatever was coming. 

“What for? Ya trash the room or somethin’?” Guzma asks with audibly forced lightness, and Makai shakes his head defensively. 

“No, no, I… I’m- I’m not used to… this,” Makai tells him, waving one hand off his leg, indicating around him. “People and homes and… and family.” It all feels so wrong, like a suit jacket that’s three sizes too big, or a Pidgeot with its flight feathers cut off. He needs to crawl back to safety, back to the tiny hideaway he’d made of that room he’d rented. Back to safety, where those white eyes can’t watch him fall apart like they’re doing now. 

Guzma’s lips part, a soft ‘oh’ barely heard, his eyes roving Makai’s face. Makai reaches a shaking hand out for the blunt, but Guzma draws it away quick, forcing them back into eye contact. It’s too intense for Makai to keep, but Guzma ducks his head a touch to encourage him back. 

“Hey,” he says, and Makai meets his eye, unwilling though he is. “Listen t’me, alright? You’re safe here. You’re a part of us now. We  _ all _ got our problems here in Skull.” He lowers his hand and ashes the blunt to the side, an expert movement that gives Makai the chance to look away. “That’s why we stick together. You ain’t alone no more. The Alolan winds are bringing some new change. Yer gonna be alright, now.”

Makai doesn’t realize he is crying until he has to gasp for air. He squeezes his eyes shut and rubs at them with the heel of his right hand to stem the flow. When he raises his head and sniffs a moment later, Guzma pats him once, gently, on the back, then lets it sit there. Makai looks over with the  _ sorry  _ forming on his lips but the boss just hands him the blunt. Makai takes it with shaking hands and tries to inhale as steadily as possible. His breath hitches at the end and he coughs it out, violently, and the burn is enough to make his eyes water all over again. Guzma doesn’t try to take it back, and Makai doesn’t offer it to him. He just nurses the smoke, slowly learning to keep the cough down low in his chest, and Guzma’s hand rubs circles into his back. It’s weird, it feels weird, makes him want to squirm, an unusually soft touch that’s still hardwired to set off the warning alarm in his head. And distantly, perhaps weirder, he thinks he might want to enjoy it.

He manages to keep still and eventually, almost hesitantly, Guzma’s hand falls away. They sit in silence, and the tension in his body slowly fades to a dull ache. The blunt is long gone, Guzma flicking the butt down to the ground and watching it float down, and Makai’s trying to remember this, drawing bits of memory deep into his heart, even with the fuzziness of the weed. 

He tries to remember the black sky and the bright white moon, how his mind stops buzzing for once and settles into blessed silence. He tries to remember how he slowly unfolds from his own hold, how Guzma’s knee ends up just touching his own. How their breathing syncs up. 

“If you gotta go… now’s the time,” Guzma’s voice is soft again, pulls Makai back down to beside him on the roof, and he doesn’t know how much time’s passed. “Don’t want you running into any late night snackers,” he adds, and Makai glances over his shoulder into the mansion. “Sure you don’t wanna stay?” Guzma asks, one last time. Makai shakes his head no. “Alright.” 

They get up off the roof ledge, Guzma offering to help him up and Makai actually takes his hand. The boss lifts and helps him stand and they sneak back inside. Guzma stops to look at him and scratches his neck with the hand that just dropped his. “You, uh, you comin’ back tomorrow?” 

“Yeah,” Makai says. His hand is warm where it had nested in Guzma’s. Guzma looks pleased. 

“You gonna be okay getting home?”

Makai considers how he feels. He feels a little floaty, but not out of it. He nods, summoning Jolteon from its ball. He doesn’t want to walk home alone in this state, but he doesn’t want Guzma to bother babysitting him. His partner looks up at him with love in its purple eyes. Satisfied, the boss bids him goodnight. 

Makai follows Jolteon outside. Once out in the moonlight, he takes a long, deep breath. 

“Let’s go home, okay?” he prompts, and Jolteon pads along beside him, mostly leading the way, enjoying the warm night air. Makai follows his Pokemon mindlessly, his head too far away to pay attention to where he’s being led. 

He’s distracted. He’s having all kinds of thoughts about Guzma. None of them coherent. None of them good. Mostly things about his hands, and staring for too long. All of them coming up short, like a yanked leash or a splash of ice water.

Jolteon takes him down the dirt paths until he realizes they’re deep in the forest. It sniffs at a downed log, scratching at the rotting bark with playful claws. A scene too familiar, a scene right out of Johto, plucking a younger Makai and a smaller Eevee from the forest back in Johto. Back home. 

“Oh, buddy,” Makai sighs mournfully, and it looks back at him with a lolling tongue, blissfully unaware of the turmoil its partner is going through. His back slams against the trunk of a living tree and he slides down it, his jacket catching on the bark the whole way down. Jolteon comes to curl up against his hip, pressing its nose into his hand until he runs his fingers through its fur, losing himself to the stormy thoughts clouding his mind. 

Had running away really solved anything? Even on the opposite side of the planet, he still hides from the same threat, still runs to the forest, still looks over his shoulder wherever he goes. Deeply embedded paranoia has isolated them in the dark corners of the forest even in paradise. Jolteon still believes that only the forest is safe. 

Their world is so  _ small _ . 

Makai’s head falls into his hands. This wasn’t what he wanted, not for himself, not for his Pokemon. This wasn’t what Alola was supposed to be. 

Makai comes to a decision he hadn’t known he was making and suddenly stands, startling Jolteon. It recovers quickly, trotting along beside him as he heads to his rental. He unlocks his door and Jolteon curiously watches him pack his belongings swiftly and with purpose, not bothering to fold clothes or bag small items, opting instead to toss it all into his suitcase haphazardly. Jolteon sometimes brings things to him, retrieving items like it’s some type of game. He tosses his backpack onto his back and checks the room one last time for any strays or leftovers. It looks like no one had ever even been here. Satisfied, he locks the door and pulls the suitcase along, its wheels clicking on the wooden walkway towards the office. He drops his key into the mail slot and leaves without a backwards glance. 

He walks with purpose, ignoring the ache in his arm from pulling the weight of his luggage down the street. He leans his back against the gates to push them open, keeping his head down low so he won’t make eye contact with any insomniacs that may be lurking about. Jolteon noses the door to the mansion open for him and with one last grunt of effort, he heaves his suitcase up the stairs to his room. 

Makai pauses just long enough to look across the staircase to Guzma’s door, unguarded and shut tight, and a wisp of an idea to wake him and tell him he came back blooms, but quickly dies. He’ll see Guzma in the morning anyway. He unlocks his own door instead and Jolteon runs in to jump on the bed as he dumps the suitcase onto the floor. His backpack follows with a hard  _ thunk _ . They’re problems for tomorrow’s Makai. His knees hit the edge of the bed, and he drops onto the blanket. He’s unprepared for the softness that drags him towards a mercifully quiet sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

Makai struggles to find peaceful sleep in such an unfamiliar place. All night he tosses and turns, tangling himself in blankets, and when the sun wakes for the day, so does he. His eyes burn, dry and tired, and he rubs at them for so long he sees stars. Resigning himself to getting up, he tosses the blankets off and throws his feet over the edge of the bed. 

Sandshrew and Jolteon, still dead to the world, shift to fill the space Makai has left on the bed. He leaves them to sleep and makes his way to the door. Growlithe, who had been asleep in front of it as though on guard, cracks an eye open at the activity and raises its head once it sees him awake. He clicks his tongue softly at it and it springs to its feet, letting him open the door. He admires its lithe agility; maybe when it gets more comfortable with him they can do something with that. It follows closely on his heel as Makai makes his way to the kitchen. 

There’s not much in the way of food, but his appetite this morning is lacking anyway. He settles on rummaging for coffee. He sets the pot to brew a much larger batch than he needs, muscle memory dictating his portions, and he mentally schools himself that he’s only doing it in case any early risers happen his way and  _ not  _ because his parents are here. Exhaustion makes his limbs heavy, so as the coffee brews, he takes a seat at the table and buries his head in his hands, his fingers threading through his hair and his palms pressing against his eyes. 

For a moment, it’s quiet and dark and something very close to  _ calm  _ washes over him. His breathing is low and even and despite his best efforts to unlearn old habits, he’s taken back to Johto, early mornings he’d wake before his parents in a desperate grab for precious minutes of quiet before he had to make their breakfast. He sighs, and he can feel Growlithe’s head butt against his knee, but it just registers as a young Jolteon somewhere in his mind and he can’t bring himself to unfurl. He listens past the dripping of coffee for any footsteps or creaking floorboards, knowing that as soon as he hears them he needs to be  _ ready _ . 

Dawn creeps in through the windows and glass doors, spilling orange light into his eyes from behind his hands as he pulls them away. His body and mind are steeled for another day - but, Makai realizes with a jolt, this isn’t that kitchen in Johto. Johto is far, far away. He leans back to look down at Growlithe, not Jolteon, who waves its fluffy tail once in response. He strokes the side of its face, petting with his thumb to soothe the Pokemon’s nervous look. The small movement helps Makai too, to ground himself in the present. The patchiness in its coat and tail are fading as its fur regrows, so he must be doing  _ something  _ right by the dog. 

When he straightens up, he jerks - he’s not alone. 

Guzma’s leaning in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, watching Makai with a weird look on his face. The ranger freezes in place, feeling caught, feeling the hellfire ready to burn, his heart sinking when he glances down at the bare table. He’s got an apology ready on his tongue for not having breakfast ready until he looks back up and catches Guzma’s eye, and the thought fizzles to nothing. 

“So, ya came crawling back,” Guzma says, and there’s a playful lilt in his voice that Makai doesn’t trust. 

He stands up and kicks his chair back so it won’t screech on the linoleum as he gives himself an escape route. The boss watches the action with disinterest, and Makai hesitates, reminding himself that he’s safe in present company. He uses the momentum to make his knee-jerk escape instinct look a little more natural; he turns for the coffee and seeks out something to hold it in, praying Guzma can’t see the tension in his body, ready to run. There’s a stack of disposable cups beside the pot, so he takes one off the top and fills it to the brim, willing his hands to stop shaking. He steps off to the side and leans against the counter this time instead of sitting down. Growlithe comes to sit by his feet, watching Guzma with a keen eye while the ranger nurses his coffee black. The bitterness has never sat right with him, but he knows better than to steal anything from the fridge or the cabinets. Guzma’s still at the door, like he’s waiting for something. 

_ A response,  _ Makai realizes, finally pulling the cup away from his lips. He weighs his options for a moment, and settles on trying to throw Guzma off his trail.

“Well, ah… you know. I just missed you so  _ much, _ ” Makai drawls, clear sarcasm dripping from his voice, and it works like a charm. Guzma’s grin looks genuine when it stretches wide across his face. 

Guzma pushes off the doorframe and Makai pulls an empty cup off the stack, offering it to the boss in a peace offering as he reaches for the pot to pour himself coffee. Guzma rummages in the fridge and comes out with a carton of MooMoo Milk, pouring in so much it nearly spills over the top of the small styrofoam cup. He carefully lifts it to his mouth, sucking some off the top. Makai has to look away to stop staring, taking the pot off the counter and putting it back on the warmer. 

“Yeah? Well, good, ‘cause I got some business to attend to today, and you’re gonna come with me.” Guzma’s tone leaves no room for argument, but Makai can’t think of one anyway. He  _ had  _ pledged himself to Skull, after all. 

With some of the coffee-milk gone, there’s room for Guzma to drag a blue container across the counter to himself. He pops it open, retrieving a spoon from inside to ladle what Makai assumes is sugar into the cup. The drink is dangerously close to spilling again by the time Guzma sets it on the counter and pulls a different spoon from one of the drawers to mix it up. 

“Plums tells me Ben and Abby have been studyin’ the desert lately. An’ they says that crystals get unearthed there all the time. Which means there’s a whole buncha Buginium Z somewhere in the Haina Desert. An’ those crystals are  _ mine. _ ”

It takes Makai a moment to figure out what the  _ hell _ Guzma is talking about, having to reach into his earliest days in Alola, where someone had explained the whole ordeal with the Island Challenge and Z-Rings and Z-crystals. He’d mostly tuned out for that conversation, since it applied to children, and he was a grown man with nothing to prove. His eyes fall to Guzma’s wrist, but the only adornment is a simple gold watch. Though he wonders if Guzma has one of those rings stashed away, he elects not to bring it up. 

“Do we know where ‘somewhere’ is?” Makai asks instead, seeking a trash can for his empty cup. Guzma takes it and opens a door, revealing a pantry of food and the waste bin that the boss chucks the empty cup into. He drinks his coffee in two swallows and tosses his cup in the trash after Makai’s. 

“Nope. Figured we’ll give it a look and if we can’t find ‘em, we got plenty o’ grunts ready to do what I say,” Guzma tells him with a broad smirk.

“Sandshrew could help,” Makai offers after a beat of consideration. Not only could it help them find what Guzma was looking for, he also figures it would love to run around in its natural habitat. Sandshrew has never had the chance to see a real desert before. Guzma grins in approval at the offer. 

“See, I knew there was a reason I liked ya,” he says, and Makai follows him as they head out the door with _warmth_ blossoming in his chest. He runs up the stairs to put Sandshrew and Jolteon in their Pokeballs, then meets the boss outside of the mansion. 

Guzma shoves his hands into his jacket pockets as they walk along the pavement of Po Town, various grunts waving at and calling to them. Unsure of the attention, Makai yields to Guzma’s authority, watching him answer them with jovial greetings or a wave of his own and walking in his shadow. 

“They really like you,” Makai observes, ducking the eye of a grunt that stares directly at him. 

“Yeah, well, I’m the boss,” Guzma answers, as if it were obvious. Makai can only picture the infamous Giovanni, and consider how  _ different _ the leaders are. Every Rocket grunt he ever met  _ feared  _ their boss. “They’re my crew. I love the little bastards,” Guzma adds fondly. 

Makai breathes easier when they leave the town gates, looking up at the cloudless sky, bright blue shot through with splashes of vivid color. Night comes and goes, but the sun never seems to truly set in Alola. 

“How did you end up the boss of a gang?” he asks, trying to spark conversation, trying to chase that feeling from last night on the roof now that they’re alone together again. 

Guzma’s good mood dampens, just a little. Just enough to have Makai doubt himself and consider ending the conversation there, just enough to make him eye Guzma’s feet as they walk, watching for his next move in case he loses his temper. But the hiccup passes as quickly as it came, and Makai’s attention is drawn to Guzma’s face when he speaks.

“I’ll admit it, I tried the dumb old island challenge. Didn’t make it to the end.” Guzma’s brow is furrowed differently than usual; it’s not anger on his face, it’s a twinge of soreness. “Tch. Whatever. It was stupid anyways. I’m too strong to be tied down as a musty old captain with all those dumb old rules. I’m destruction in human form, an’ now I got the respect I deserve and I don’t answer t’ nobody.” 

Makai wants to ask if that means that he’s happy. He wants to ask what failure had tasted like, if it was anything like the metal tang of  _ not being good enough  _ Makai is too familiar with, whether it pools the same way on the back of his tongue and melts into the crevices of his body the way Makai knows. He wants to ask if he ever wakes up in the middle of the night and breaks, when the only witnesses are the moonlight and the ghosts. He wants to ask.

He doesn’t. 

“You didn’t do your gym challenge either, right?” Guzma enquires suddenly. 

Makai’s fingers twitch. “No.” 

“How come?”

“I had nothing to prove,” Makai reasons. “How could I worry about gym badges when I…” 

He trails off, unsure. Guzma is still little more than an acquaintance, even though he can still taste smoke if he closes his eyes and thinks back. He doesn’t want to open up, doesn’t want to dump his deepest feelings onto the pavement underfoot. He doesn’t want to talk about Johto and family and fear. He’s never had the opportunity to talk to anyone, let alone a neutral third party, but now that he has the chance, he can’t find the ability to speak. 

He doesn’t want Guzma to think differently of him. That he’s weak, that it’s his fault, that he’s more trouble than he’s worth. Guzma’s waiting, holding his breath, holding  _ their  _ breath. Makai exhales for both of them. He hears Guzma follow suit.

“I am not an immigrant by chance,” is all he says. 

Whatever weight that holds for Guzma, it’s enough that he doesn’t press for more. “So how come ya came all the way to Alola?” he asks instead. “What’s so good about this place?”

Oh, how can he possibly put an entire childhood of longing, of escapism, of wanting to feel something other than  _ fear  _ and  _ pain  _ into words? How can he tell Guzma that the only sense of  _ hope  _ he’d  _ ever  _ had when he was young was the day he’d seen that simple commercial on television, encouraging travelers to visit the beautiful land of Alola, bursting with color and life, where Pokémon he had never even dreamed of seeing bounced and bumbled across the screen? How, when they’d urged him to  _ run away from it all,  _ he’d wanted so badly to take the woman’s hand and let her drag him through the television? How he’d remembered that one brief moment even with a mind that struggled to keep hold of everyday memories? 

How could Guzma ever  _ understand _ ? 

How can he even open the door for Guzma to come into his life like that? 

But really, now that he is here, what  _ is  _ so good about this place? He’s found himself living in a dilapidated mansion, surrounded by thugs and working for a gang. He looks over at Guzma - at  _ the boss _ , the man who gave him a second chance. The man who listens to him talk and pulls him ever closer to a darkness that isn’t filled with scary monsters that claw and rip and shred and tear. He’s rendered speechless.

“That is something I suppose I will have to see with time,” Makai responds wearily, when his brain decides to start making words again.

“Anything’s better than home, huh?” 

Makai actually stops in his tracks, faltering for real this time. Was that really the only reason he was here? Surely there was a lighter,  _ brighter  _ reason why he came to Alola, why it spoke to him that day. Right? Or had he just latched on to the first option that wasn’t agony and suffering? 

Disgusted at the idea, he shakes it from his head.

He keeps walking.

Guzma is tall enough that he can keep up easily when Makai walks with purpose, trying to get away from that moment of doubt. 

“So far,” Makai replies bitingly, ending the conversation. 

They stop outside of the desert. Makai presses the button on the ball on his hip and the red light pours forth, taking shape until Sandshrew stands before them. It sniffs the air and immediately turns its head towards the desert. 

“Hey, buddy,” he greets, and his partner looks up at him excitedly. “We’re looking for crystals. Can you help us?”

Sandshrew chirps at him happily. Guzma pulls something from his pocket and kneels down to hold it out to the Pokémon. In the middle of his palm is a small green crystal. 

“This here is Buginium Z. This is what we’re lookin’ for.”

After Sandshrew has had some time to inspect the shard, Guzma pockets it again and leads them deeper into the desert. 

Makai is careful and uncertain as he picks his way over the sand, and frowns when Guzma cuts through with a weirdly practiced ease. Has he done this before? 

Sandshrew had been waddling beside him, but now that they are at the mercy of the bright sun and hot sands, it scampers forward on all fours, running past even Guzma. Not wanting to be completely left behind, Makai catches up to walk beside the boss who, thankfully, slows down to match his speed. Sandshrew finally ends up rolling into a ball and cuts to the left, speeding off, leaving a wake of sand behind it. Makai whistles in amazement.

“I’ve never seen Sandshrew like this,” he admits in awe, watching it zip back and forth around them as they walk further into the desert, where tourists dare not venture. A pillar of rock emerges from the earth, catapulting Sandshrew high into the air; it unfolds from its ball and spins to dive back into the sand, its claws outstretched above its head like the point of a tiny missile. The ground cracks as it forces its way back under the surface, creating a small fissure that quickly disappears as the soft, loose sand above flows down to fill the space it leaves. Guzma jumps back with a shout of surprise, and Makai reaches out to steady him, catching his closest body part - an elbow, as it turns out - and holding it until Guzma regains his footing. 

Meanwhile, Sandshrew is nothing more than a lump in the sand, ploughing through it with no apparent direction in mind. 

“What has got you so riled up?” Makai asks it, though he is quite sure it cannot hear him. 

Guzma watches its progress. He has recovered from his near-spill and stands steady, albeit bent over with his hands on his thighs. “Deserts are a Sandshrew’s natural habitat. It must be feelin’ pretty strong,” he observes. “Hot sun, dry air, plenty of sand? It’s a Ground Pokémon’s wildest dream.” 

Makai watches Sandshrew break the surface again. Body curled into a compact ball-shape, it speeds in circles, sand splashing up in a translucent wall around it. It’s obviously near-delirious with happiness. He had no clue how much of an impact the environment would have on the little guy; he had no clue it mattered  _ that much.  _ He drops his hand from Guzma’s elbow, simply standing beside him. The sun beats down relentlessly, but he can't seem to mind, even when sweat starts to form at the hairline on his neck. 

He just wants to remember this, remember the  _ joy  _ that flutters high in his chest, remember the smile he can’t fight off, watching his beloved Pokemon play and have fun and run free. 

He has a new answer to that question, now.

“This, I think, Guzma.”

Guzma perks up at being addressed. 

“When I moved to Alola… when I dreamed of this place, back in Johto,  _ this _ is what I pictured. ” Makai feels so  _ light,  _ free of the weight that has always dragged him down as he watches the yellow ball zoom about. Years and years of pain, of hiding, of the shackles that had bound them tight, fall away as Sandshrew gets its first taste of freedom. 

If Guzma wants to know what’s so great about Alola… 

“Look at my boy,” he breathes, watching Sandshrew roll and play. His throat constricts, and he has to swallow more than once to be able to breathe past the sudden lump lodged there. Guzma doesn’t speak. 

Makai doesn’t want to end his Pokémon’s playtime, but they have a job to do for Guzma. They can hopefully come back another day. He lets it have a few moments more before whistling one sharp note.

Sandshrew’s head pops up out of the sand and it comes scrambling back towards him, sending up a spray of fine grains as it skids to a stop at his feet. Its little chest heaves as it gasps for air, eyes glittering with happiness. Makai smiles down at it, and when it reaches for him, he picks it up and pats its back to help it breathe. “Good boy,” falls from his lips as the Pokémon catches its breath. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices that Guzma is watching them, eyes bright with interest and the faintest flicker of something  _ else _ . Makai turns to him fully, raising a brow, and his expression smooths out - although his cheeks dust faintly pink as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“What?” Makai asks as Sandshrew tucks its head into the crook of his neck. 

“N-nothin’!” Guzma replies, crossing his arms and glancing away evasively. 

Makai just looks at him. The silence lasts all of five seconds before Guzma breaks. 

“I just... You’re good with your Pokémon,” he mutters. 

Makai opens his mouth to respond - because yes, of course he is; it’s literally his  _ job _ \- but Guzma is apparently not finished. 

“I know, I know, you’re a ranger, but… ya got a really strong bond with your Pokémon. I like how ya treat ‘em,” he says, and that pink has darkened to red. 

It’s an obvious compliment, but Makai isn’t sure how to respond. He settles on an awkward nod.

Sandshrew snuffles contentedly. He rests his chin on top of its head and closes his eyes for a moment, indulging his Pokémon’s love for just being  _ held _ . It croons softly, nuzzling impossibly closer. 

Sadly, the moment has to end sometime. He pats its back once to get its attention. 

“Ready, bud?” he asks.

Sandshrew springs from his arms with an affirmative squeak, curling into a ball and bouncing off the sand once before it straightens out and uses its momentum to disappear under the surface. They follow the lump as it digs through the earth, searching for crystals. 

“Y’know, we have our own Sandshrews here in Alola,” Guzma says. “But they look way different to your boy.” 

He tugs his jacket off as he speaks, the sweltering heat apparently having finally become unbearable. It’s the first time Makai has ever seen him out of it; the white t-shirt underneath is baggy but it doesn’t hide the tone of his arms. Makai has to try not to stare as Guzma ties his jacket around his waist. 

“They’re ice-types that live near the peak of Mount Lanakila,” he continues, pointing west; far beyond the desert, the very summit of the mountain is just barely visible. 

Sandshrew’s golden-brown head pops up out of the sand, drawing Makai’s attention away from the peak as it approaches with something clutched in one clawed paw. It croons at Makai’s feet, holding out its first find. 

The crystal is pale green, polished to a perfect, glassy sheen from being buffed by sand and wind. A tiny dark shape that vaguely resembles some sort of insect hangs suspended at its center. Makai takes it and scans the surrounding dunes, trying to divine where more might be hiding. But deserts are very different to forests; he doesn’t understand the terrain, has no idea what to look for. In the end he picks a direction at random and nods to his right. Sandshrew takes off immediately. 

“I’d like to see them sometime, if you’ll take me,” Makai says, offering the crystal to his boss. 

Guzma blinks before taking it. “Uh, y-yeah. Yeah, we can do that, no probs,” he says.

Makai’s lips quirk up as he looks back at the peak of the mountain, curious. Alola really is so very different. 

“You have any deserts back home? Sandshrew’s actin’ like it’s never seen the sun before,” Guzma comments. They both watch Sandshrew cut to the left, sand spraying behind it with the abrupt change in direction. 

“In Johto? No. There are no natural deserts, though perhaps there could be one in the Safari Park,” Makai muses. He couldn’t ever venture too far from his hometown, so he couldn’t very well go and see the place for himself. 

“Really? Then how’d ya end up with a desert Pokémon like Sandshrew?” Guzma asks, his brow furrowing. 

Makai exhales, heavy but slow and measured. He doesn’t want to think about Johto right now - not when Sandshrew is so  _ happy.  _ But there’s just something about Guzma that has a way of pulling the truth out of him. 

“I spent most of my childhood in a forest near my home,” Makai tells

him. “There wasn’t an inch of that place I hadn’t explored, though it was treacherous and travelers were advised to stick to the main path.” 

He can picture it vividly, as if it were right before him now. “I was a young teenager when I found Sandshrew deep in the forest. Maybe ten years ago? It was crying out, like it was lost, you know? When I finally found it, it was stuck in a creek.

“Sandshrew are made to absorb water efficiently, to survive in the desert, so too much water can actually waterlog them and make them sick. It was so young and weak, it couldn’t get free of the mud. It was just a  _ baby _ .” 

His hands curl into fists and he can feel his nails digging into his palms. “I got it out and helped it dry off and warm it up again. I’m pretty sure it was one of the prize Pokémon from the casino in the city.” 

He can’t fight the scowl on his face, no matter how hard he tries. “Everyone loves winning games, winning prizes, winning Pokémon. No one ever cares how those babies are just bred to  _ be  _ prizes. They’re put on display when they should be  _ growing up.  _ And then people win them because it’s all fun and games until they find they don’t know how to take care of them, and they die. Or they think they’re doing the Pokémon a favor by releasing it into the wild, where it can’t take care of itself and dies.” 

Guzma whistles. “Shit,” is all he says. 

“We’ve been partners ever since.” Makai watches as Sandshrew bounds over to bring him a clawful of crystals, which really only amounted to three. But Guzma seems pleased, so he pets Sandshrew’s head and sends it off again. Sandshrew bounces across the sand with big leaps and tiny chitters of happiness. Fondness replaces the anger sitting in Makai’s chest. 

“Sandshrew really listens to you. And you don’t train  _ at all _ ?” Guzma presses.

Makai sighs heavily, putting his hands on his knees to push himself upright. Clearly, Guzma won’t let this go until he gets the answers he wants.

“Not… in the traditional sense,” Makai replies hesitantly.

Guzma snaps his fingers. “I  _ knew  _ you were a trainer,” he accuses.

Makai glares at him. “My country is being ravaged by Team Rocket,” he retorts, sharp with contained anger. “They’re terrorists, but the difference between them and other groups like them is that they have  _ power.  _ They have so much money you’ll never know how bad it truly gets. They have control of the media. When they knock on your door, if you want to live to see another day your only option is to run and hide. And when they find you, your Pokémon are  _ theirs. _ ” 

He wrings his hands roughly. “I wasn’t going to let them take the only thing I had in this world. I am not a trainer. We did not fight trainers in the streets, or Gym leaders, or neighbors. We didn’t fight for  _ fun _ . My Pokémon and I were the only thing stopping Team Rocket from destroying our forest and its shrine. Without that forest, I’d have had nowhere else to go.” 

Makai tracks Sandshrew through the sand with a keen eye. “So, yes, Guzma, I fought, and I trained my Pokemon to become stronger, but I am  _ not _ a trainer, and I do not battle.” 

Guzma doesn’t say anything for a second. He’s twisting and turning the crystal in his hand with his thumb, worrying it with whatever eats at the back of his mind. 

Makai sighs regretfully. He hadn’t meant to unload on Guzma like that, but it’s too late to take it back now. “I just want a better life. For them, more than anything, but hopefully someday, maybe, for myself.”

Guzma hums thoughtfully, leaning down to take the crystals from Sandshrew himself this time. It hands them to him without hesitation. 

“See? I knew you were strong. Can’t hide it from ol’ Guzma.” He taps a finger to his temple. His voice is quiet; Makai can  _ feel  _ the change in his good mood and wishes he hadn’t brought up Johto and ruined their day. 

But Guzma surprises him when he puts an arm around his shoulder, leaning in close. “But listen, ranger, your secret’s safe with me. ‘Kay? You’ll just be my ultimate secret weapon.” Guzma winks, and okay, yeah, Makai feels a little better.

Even though his skin is burning at Guzma’s touch. 

“Thank you,” he says, and  _ means  _ it. It makes the smile they share a little more meaningful, a little softer around the edges. 

Guzma’s arm slides off of him, but not before he soothes a hand across his back, and even in the hot, hot desert, Makai feels a little colder when he pulls away. 

“Don’t mention it. And uh, I think I got some old books on Alola in my room somewhere if ya wanna, y’know, check ‘em out,” Guzma adds, rubbing his neck. 

“Yeah, that would be nice,” Makai says, searching for Sandshrew. It’s too deep in the sand for him to see where it is, and a wave of uncomfortable nervousness settles in the pit of his stomach. 

Just as he’s about to call out, he sees it bounce into view from behind a rock formation, and his breath whooshes out all at once. 

They convince Sandshrew to stop a few times for water breaks, but otherwise, its energy is seemingly endless. They’re on their fourth or fifth break, and the sun is slowly sinking, though the heat has yet to let up. Makai’s shirt sticks to his back, and he’s long since given up on wiping the sweat from his brow. 

Guzma’s not faring much better, hair a tangled and sweaty mop. More perspiration trickles lazily down his neck and soaks into his shirt collar.

Thanks to Sandshrew’s incredible crystal-finding skills, the boss had needed to convert his jacket into a makeshift bag, piling all of his treasure in the middle and folding the corners up around it. The blazing sun glints off one of the small green gems as he carefully spins it between his fingers, periodically picking at blemishes on its otherwise flat surface. 

Makai still doesn’t really understand their importance; he’d seen them as Sandshrew brought them over and they all look the same. But Guzma really does seem to prize them, and that’s a good enough reason for him to keep sending the Ground-type out for more. In addition to crystals, they’ve also amassed various objects that must’ve been left behind by other travelers as well as other more natural resources. Their biggest find, a gold nugget the size of Makai’s fist, sits safely tucked away in Makai’s pocket.

Several minutes pass before Guzma seems satisfied with the condition of their haul, stretching out his back with a series of loud cracks and pops that have Makai wincing in sympathy. He cracks his own stiff neck and reaches out for Sandshrew, who digs a tunnel back to him. 

“I think we can call this a success, huh?” Guzma asks, though it’s more of a statement. He wraps his collection up tight in his jacket and wedges the bundle under his arm, sliding smoothly off the rock they’d been sitting on. 

Sandshrew leads them back to the entrance of the desert, and the further they walk, the cooler it gets. 

Guzma’s on the phone with Plumeria while Makai calls his Pokémon back into its ball, its eyes drooping tiredly now that its day of playing is over. Guzma puts her on speaker just as Plumeria mentions that there’s no food being made at home and offers to cook, which Guzma vetoes in favor of takeout from some place called Mixer’s. She tells him she'll text him and hangs up, and Guzma leads the way into town and to a little sandwich place. 

They’re standing in line at the sandwich shop and Guzma’s talking Makai’s ear off, gesturing animatedly as he tells him about Buginium Z, and how he’s the strongest trainer in all Alola, and how with these crystals he’s  _ unstoppable.  _

Makai is only aware of what Guzma is saying at a surface level - enough to get the gist. He’s a little too distracted  _ watching _ Guzma talk to properly pay attention; he cocks his head, examining Guzma’s face. 

Eventually, Guzma realizes Makai isn’t really listening. “What?” he asks defensively.

“You have dimples,” Makai observes. 

Guzma’s brow furrows. “Yeah? So? I always had ‘em. So what?” He answers too fast, almost like he’s  _ embarrassed _ , heavy on the defense when he folds his arms across his chest. 

Makai can’t tear his eyes away from Guzma’s face, even though the dimples are long gone. That one moment, that flash of a  _ real _ smile still echoes in his mind. He’s not really sure what to say. 

He embraces it. “Nothing.” 

Guzma glares at him, obviously unconvinced. 

“I just like them.” Makai feels like he should use more words, but that’s all he’s got. He shrugs.

Guzma ducks his head as if that’ll hide the way his cheeks dust pink, setting his jaw like he’s trying to hide something. He shoves Makai forward in a way that doesn’t make him panic, forceful without roughness. 

“Aw, shuddup an’ order, wouldja?” he demands, rubbing the heel of his hand against his cheek like he’s trying to physically erase the color gathering there. 

Makai obeys, raising his hands in defense. 

“Alright, alright,” he placates, ordering his food from the girl at the counter. 

Fifteen minutes and three sandwiches later, they head back to Po Town. 

Plumeria and Guzma elect to hang out in her room as they eat, but Makai insists on taking a shower first and brings his meal to his room. 

Stepping inside and shutting the door, he takes a moment to collect himself. 

Today was… something.

Guzma is unlike anyone he’s ever known; Makai doesn’t feel drained like he usually does after socializing for too long. He tugs his shirt over his head as he moves into the bathroom, taking stock of himself in the mirror. 

He  _ is _ tired, but it’s the sort of exhaustion that comes from being in the sun too long. There are clear lines gently browned into his skin where his tank top had left his shoulders and neck exposed. Despite feeling more than ready for several ice-cold glasses of water, though, he looks… calmer, maybe? At least, he’s used to seeing a particular pinch between his brows, but it’s not there at this moment.

Turning away from the vanity mirror, he rucks off his shorts and steps into the shower. As he rinses the first layer of sweat out of his hair, his mind flashes back to toned triceps and a bright smile. 

It’s dangerous territory. He tweaks the water quite a few degrees colder, but it doesn’t do anything for the heat pooling low in his belly.

Makai thunks his head against the linoleum wall with a long-suffering sigh. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter @Voltageinside. my sincerest, eternal thanks to my editor, @solarfruit. 
> 
> i am happy to share this story with you. this is a rewrite of my 2016 fic of the same title and is a labor of love. kudos and comments make me the happiest person in the world and i read them every day. thank you for reading and giving my story a chance. so much love . x


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